


just hold on

by NotAllThoseWhoWander



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff I guess, this is really gross and cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/NotAllThoseWhoWander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras hasn't slept properly in three days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just hold on

**Author's Note:**

> help i started shipping enjolras/combeferre and i can't get up

 

 

 

"Enjolras." Combeferre closes his textbook ( _Diseases of the Mind and Body for the Modern Medical Student_ ) and removes his eyeglasses. "How long has it been since you've slept?"

Enjolras makes a sound in reply; a noise somewhere between dissent and agreement. Combeferre is pretty certain that his housemate's been hunched over the desk, holding the same position (and unspeakable posture,  _really_ ) for at least ten hours. 

"I said, how long has it been since you've slept. Actually slept."

Enjolras flips the page of his own textbook—a real desk-breaker,  _Contemporary Political Science_ —and glides the highlighter along what looks like an entire paragraph. 

"I have two papers due tomorrow, and notes, and I have to draw up plans for the next rally." He caps the highlighter and shoves it between his teeth, talking about the neon tube. "I can't just  _stop_ , 'Ferre."

"Well, you can never  _stop_." Combeferre rises and goes to fiddle with the radiator, which has recently taken to either belching enough heat to warm the apartment like a sauna or grinding to a clanking stop and refusing, stubbornly, to work at all. The air is meatlocker-esque. Combeferre retaliates with two pairs of socks and a maroon university sweatshirt. Enjolras is in shirtsleeves ( _short sleeves_ , is he some kind of damned superhuman?) as if he's totally oblivious to the cold. "You have to make yourself put the pen down."

"I can't. Give me another hour." Enjolras reaches for his coffee mug and swigs heartily, tipping it nearly upside-down into his mouth.

"It's empty," Combeferre supplies.

"I'll make some more." Enjolras mutters, "soon as I'm through with this chapter."

"You don't look so good, actually." Combeferre says. He hasn't got a good look at Enjolras's face as of late—likely because it's constantly shoved in a textbook or zeroed in on a computer screen or sheaf of papers. Enjolras looks unwell. He's pale to the point of pallidness, blue eyes underscored with dark circles. Also, he hasn't combed his hair in three days (that Combeferre  _has_ taken note of), but pulled it into a tangled ponytail. He looks frail. "When was the last time you slept?"

He's about to throw in a doctorly  _seriously, Enjolras_ , but Enjolras drags his hands across his face. 

"Uh. Night before last."

"That was four hours when you keeled over writing your PolySci paper and I had the good sense not to wake you."

Enjolras sighs shallowly. "Okay. It was probably three or four nights ago. Not that it matters." He drums the highlighter on the desktop, a frantic tempo. "I can sleep when I'm dead."

"Which will be sooner rather than later, if you don't get a few hours right now." Combeferre takes one of Enjolras's shoulders. "Come on. Get up.  _Yes_ ," he says, when Enjolras whines in protest. "Yes, right now."

"An hour, at the most.  _Maybe_ two," Enjolras mumbles, shoving back his chair and rising. He checks his watch, the movement almost compulsive. "It's already eleven."

"Just sit down." Combeferre almost has to manhandle a grudging Enjolras onto the couch, but in the end Enjolras complies. "Everything can  _wait_." 

"It can't," Enjolras murmurs, but he closes his eyes. 

"Just. Try to relax, or something," Combeferre says, but he lies down and as he's thinking that the couch has a really faint but definitely  _there_ odor of alcohol and possibly smoke that did  _not_ waft out of a cigarete, Enjolras eases himself down so that he's lying against Combeferre's front and Combeferre puts his arms around Enjolras like it's a reflex. Which of course it isn't because they're roommates and best friends who just happen to know, like, everything about each other and understand each other on a level that's probably not even human.

"This is kind of nice, actually." Enjolras says, very softly, and Combeferre feels the vibration of Enjolras talking against his throat. He lies there with his arms around Enjolras, listening to Enjolras's breathing even out, slowly, and suddenly he's not bothered by the cold, can't even feel it. Enjolras's skin is warm under Combeferre's hands, practically burning through his t-shirt, like Enjolras is a flame that even sleep can't extinguish and Combeferre's right hand is tangled up with Enjolras's and he can feel the steady rise and fall of Enjolras's chest, and Enjolras smells like Irish Spring soap and floral shampoo because it was on sale at the bodega on the corner last week. He feels himself start to drift off, into a warm darkness, and is dimly aware of smiling against the back of Enjolras's neck before comfortable sleep slips over him like a blanket.

___________________

He wakes up in the small hours of the morning with Enjolras's hair in his mouth and his right leg is kind of entangled with Enjolras's. Enjolras is still asleep and only the desk light is on, a yellow cone in the darkness, and the radiator is clanking away under the window. He thinks that it's snowing outside. 

Enjolras stirs in his sleep, murmurs something. He shifts backwards.

"'Ferre."

"What?" Combeferre says into Enjolras's warm right shoulder.

Enjolras mumbles something but it sounds like gibberish.

"I didn't hear you."

Enjolras repeats it, Combeferre leaning back, stifling a slow, hazy smile. 

_Don't go_.

"Yeah," he says, and he's falling asleep again and will probably wake up and miss his morning class but he doesn't really care. "Yeah, I won't." He can feel sleep crawling back, pulling at his eyelids. Enjolras puts his head down, curling closer to Combeferre. "I'm not going anywhere."


End file.
